My Own Little Slice of Hell
by dogstar-ebony
Summary: Everyone has a different idea of paradise. Sirius Black was no different.


**Sleep**

I've never believed in Heaven. At least, not in the traditional sense of the word. Cherubic choirs and fluffy white clouds have never really done it for me.

I suppose it's largely because I've never really understood the appeal of that. It always seemed so ridiculous to me; I pitied each and every subscriber to the theory of paradise. Imagine it. Just for a moment, imagine it. Close your eyes and feel your way into another's body. Commandeer their soul. Just for a moment.

Imagine the struggle of the daily grind, the ache in the very marrow of your bones, the dull in your heart as you drag yourself to work for eight or nine eternal hours. Feel the cold claws of fear grip your stomach vicelike and twist viciously, the fatigue boring deep grooves around your eyes, as you panic about how you're going to pay the bills this month; how you're going to find the money to keep your family afloat.

Look into the mirror and see the scars across your heart mirrored on your face. See the sallow skin around your face pucker and crease with age and stress and tell yourself it will all be worth it. Convince yourself that your earthly struggles will be rewarded soon; you will be at peace. Your paradise awaits you.

That, of course, is entirely dependant on your idea of paradise. And so, here we hit the first snag in the theory. Heaven, we are always taught, is a place free from suffering, pain, disease, poverty. Heaven, we unquestioningly accept, is a beautiful utopia, a lush garden abundant with all the wonders deemed too glorious for the physical world.

I disagree.

Incarceration will do that to you. Particularly when it's wrongful imprisonment. Anyone who has ever spent so much as five minutes in Azkaban will tell you that it's about as removed from the traditional perception of Heaven as it could possibly be.

That was my home for thirteen years. My days were largely taken up with staring through the bars of my cell, watching the pale sun struggling meekly through the thick dust-grey layers of mist and cloud that always shrouded the prison, heavy with the weight of our despair. The hopelessness in each of us was indelibly soaked into the very walls of that place, so that upon entrance each and every newcomer and visitor would be met with a wall of seclusion and despair that seeped into their bones, a caustic scar across their heart they would carry with them always.

During the days, my idea of Heaven would have been being able to simply sit in a pub somewhere, Firewhisky in hand, with James. To somehow exist in a place where none of this had ever happened and we were free. To erase the fear and worry etched ineradicably into our faces and simply go back.

During my nights, however, my fantasy altered. Heaven took on an entirely different meaning. Of course I still longed for the day-time Heaven, with every atom of my body. But at night, when the mist seemed to creep into my cell; when the screams of men drowning in their own guilt and pain twisted the air in the prison and forced my neck-hair on end; when I lay awake watching the soulless shadows of our guards glide by, their fetid stench filling my nostrils forcefully; at night, I prayed for sleep.

Time operates on a different plane when you can't sleep. Insomnia is a silent curse, a deadly torment. You're never fully asleep; you're never fully awake; you exist in some kind of purgatory, in which every single minute takes an eternity to pass. I would lie there, curled foetal, and I would pray for sleep.

I thought of sleep almost as a butterfly. If I chased it outright, it would forever elude my grasp, dancing in the shadows, always just out of reach. If I snatched at it as I grew close I would simply crush it, destroying all chance of sleep that night. It began to be a game of patience. I lost more than I won.

In the beginning I thought not sleeping would be a good thing. My logic was that if you don't sleep, then you can't dream. I was wrong. Oblivion is the greatest gift man has ever possessed. When I slept, it was light. The feeling of breath on my skin could rouse me; I never felt fully refreshed, but once my eyes were closed and I was gone, I felt nothing.

I didn't see the terror and pain on my best friend's faces as they realised their mistake in trusting me.

My guilt and regret didn't settle themselves painfully into the base of my throat, a vicious shard of glass that only dug harder the more I tried to loosen it with my reasoning.

When I slept, I didn't turn over his last words to me before he died as a personal torment for myself, a reminder that I was not the "great friend" he had then assured me I was.

When I slept, on the incredibly rare occasion that I dreamt, I saw them as people, fresh-faced and breathless with love, faces shining with happiness. I didn't see them, as I did during my waking hours, as maggot-ridden corpses, bleached bone visible through papery skin, deadened eyes sunken into waxy flesh and glaring glassy at me, pinning me to the spot with the weight of their accusation.

Sleep became my Nirvana. Even after my escape, I never slept easily. I treasured what little slumber I could steal.

In the end, it didn't much matter anymore anyway. I lasted around two years after my escape before it was deemed an appropriate time to wrench my perception of Heaven away completely.

Where I am now is a wasteland. There are no birds in the sky, because the sky is merely a slash of angry red streaked across purple, a vicious swirl of colour. There are no animals around, because the ground is a coarse grey mixture of dust and grit and rock, making it impossible to lie down for long enough to attain sleep.

Sometimes, the sky clears to reveal a fresh cornflower blue and I am granted a glimpse of sunlight. Sometimes I find patches of lush grass where I can lay down my head and try to close my eyes for some rest. There is no food here, but I can't remember the last time I felt the pangs of hunger. There are no other people here. I searched all over, inexhaustibly, and found no one. I am entirely alone.

I don't think this is Hell but I'm not sure it's Heaven either. Whatever it is, it's home now. And that's as much certainty as I can have right now.

**A/N: Not entirely sure of this story but let me know what you guys think. It's meant to be Sirius' POV, and I've tried to keep his current position as open as I can because I stubbornly refuse to accept he is dead, mostly because I love him. Sad, I know. **


End file.
